


Negocios

by Carrogath



Series: Luces [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Cheating, F/F, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-21 23:36:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9571910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carrogath/pseuds/Carrogath
Summary: Sombra and Mercy have a one-night stand. It's good.That's bad.





	

It’s three in the morning in her apartment in Polanco when Sombra wakes up to another woman in her bed.

It takes a couple seconds for her to realize who it is. Then another three to recall how in the sweet fuck she ended up banging said woman. There was tequila involved, she remembers. Jesus, it’s always the tequila. She makes a mental note to swear off the stuff forever, who cares if it’s made in Mexico.

The next thing she remembers is that the sex was actually _good_ , made worse by the fact that Dr. Angela Ziegler was the one she was doing it with. They hadn’t been drunk—that might be the worst part—and Sombra’s memories of the evening go from muddled to crystal-clear in the blink of an eye. The slickness between her thighs makes the memories all the more vivid, and arousal still burns low in her stomach, eyes tracing the peaks and valleys of the doctor’s spine, the ridges of her back. There are what look like surgical scars along the base of her neck and her shoulders, as if something was inserted and then taken out again—implants, maybe? The vagaries of youth, Angela might tell her, a holdover from her mad scientist days. Sombra has the urge to reach out and trace them with her fingers; hell, she’s touched her all over already.

Angela stirs. Sombra watches the muscles in her back shift, and she swears there’s an extra one that’s not supposed to be there between her shoulder blades. She hesitates for a second, and then reaches out and taps her on the shoulder.

“Sombra,” she mumbles.

“How long you been awake?”

“Just woke up.”

“You OK?”

“Fine.” She doesn’t sound fine, that’s for sure.

She pushes any questions about the evening they just had far, far into the back of her mind. Too much to unpack right now. They’ll either talk about it in the morning, or never. She knows how they got here—knows damn well why—but they don’t have to talk about it. Sombra hadn’t expected to fuck her, and maybe Angela hadn't been expecting to either, but as one-night stands went, it was better than expected from someone she could hardly stand to be around most of the time. She wants to fuck her again, but they probably shouldn’t.

It’s awkward. She can’t think of what else to say. She’s hungry to forget about everything else and have her again; Angela is easy and creative and experienced, and she doesn’t bog it down with feelings or small talk. Sombra can’t imagine when they’ll ever do it again, and she’d be more than happy to forget about it tomorrow. But it’s three in the morning, and she’s wide awake, and she can’t think of what else to do. If she reaches over, pulls her in by the waist, nuzzles into her neck, she knows Angela will reciprocate. She’s not even sure why. Maybe they’ve just known each other too long. They’ve never even had sex before, and yet their bodies move as if they’ve been together for years.

She doesn’t want to come off as needy, though. She’s not going to take more than what her partner can give. Angela’s awake, and Sombra isn’t going back to sleep, so she tries for the friendly approach.

“It’s only three,” she says. “You gonna try to go back to sleep?”

“Mm,” Angela replies, and it’s not much of a reply at all. There are probably a million other things on her mind right now. When are there not? Sombra doesn’t want to ruin the illusion that they had sex for the reasons people normally have sex, so she doesn’t press the matter, but it makes her restless.

Of course this wasn’t normal. Sombra wouldn’t dream of sleeping with her, most of the time. It was too risky. Playing with fire. Too many things likely to go wrong. Why she took the bait this time, even she doesn’t know. Neither of them had been full-on drunk, just a little tipsy. And it had been Angela who initiated. Sombra would never have done her otherwise.

She grumbles under her breath, and then prods her again. “Oye, ángel. Mira ’cá.” She feels like a brat for asking.

Angela does. She turns on her side and looks up at her. “What?” Her eyes poke out of her fringe, intense in the half-light, and her skin glows white from the machinery on the far side of the room, and all their blinking lights.

She blanks on what she was gonna say. There’s a glower in Angela’s eyes. They’ll still hate each other after this, she guesses. “You didn’t think it was bad, did you?”

She looks away, then back up at Sombra. “No.”

“What’s the matter, then?”

She sighs, and her shoulders rise and fall along with her breath. “Nothing.” She doesn’t seem tired, either.

Sombra grabs her shoulder and gives it a shrug. “C’mon, chica, we already fucked. Nothing left to hide. Talk to me.”

Angela twists, then, grabs her neck and pulls her down, mashing their mouths together. Sombra kisses back, all eagerness, but she squirms at the same time, wriggling out of a death grip that she can only guess Angela developed after years of hardcore surgery. When they separate, Sombra is on top of her, which was probably what Angela had intended for her to do. Sombra’s gaze travels downward, over the stark shadows of her collarbone, the white mounds of her breasts. She can even see the veins branching across her ribs, up and down her chest. Her eyes settle on her nipples, bright pink against her skin. Her mind roils with possibilities. They should fuck, but she wants to talk first. It’s strange. Normally, she’d be the first person to say that none of this ever happened the next morning.

But it’s already morning; it’s just dark outside. And they should talk. Angela isn’t going to suddenly drop out of her life anytime soon, much as Sombra might want her to. They have common goals, common allies, common needs. They’re not getting away from each other if they want to get any of their work done.

Sombra dips her head down, freezes and makes eye contact. A little knot forms in Angela’s brow, as if to ask, “Why did you stop?” She dips her head lower, starts pressing kisses into her shoulders, lower then and lower still until her mouth reaches her left nipple, and she swirls her tongue around it and feels it harden at the contact, at the wetness. Angela arches against her, and then she stops.

“Um,” she says, mouth still pressed against her breast. Sombra’s skin burns wherever they touch.

Angela rolls her eyes. “Just say it.”

She talks while she kisses her, and the words come out all sloppy. “Maybe… Mm… We should talk. About… Nn…” Angela’s breath hitches. “You know…” Her shoulders begin to ache in this position, so she pushes herself up. Angela presses her head back down against her chest once she does, _mierda_.

“About Amélie?” She throws her head back, and Sombra can see the veins in her neck, the paleness of her throat. She’s so pale, and it’s distracting, so she sinks her teeth into her neck and bites. Her other hand works its way between Angela’s legs, and they open themselves up for her. She runs her fingers along her slit, teases inside the opening. She’s still wet.

They can’t fucking talk like this. Mierda.

Angela’s chest is heaving now, and her breaths come short and sharp. Sombra slips her fingers in, then pulls them out again. Her whole body lurches forward in response.

“Scheisse,” she hisses, pressing Sombra’s face into her neck, wrapping the other arm around her waist. “Don’t be a tease.”

“Not Lacroix,” says Sombra. “Amari.”

The tension from her body fades, and she pushes Sombra away from her. “Fareeha?” Her brow furrows.

“Uh,” she says. “I mean…”

Talk about a mood-killer. Angela sits up, and Sombra’s eyes land on her pussy. “No,” she says. “You’re the one who started it. What is it?”

Sombra looks up at her—but slowly. She will take all the time she has in the world to stare. Fuck. Why did she insist on this whole talking thing again? “Before we had sex, we didn’t really…”

“Ugh,” Angela groans, “if you wanted to talk about that—”

“If I could get away from it, I would. I’m only saying,” says Sombra, holding a hand up, “I mean, how many times have you cheated on Amari by now?”

She looks away, pouting like a three-year-old caught stealing from a candy jar. Good Lord.

“Did Gérard know about you and Amélie?”

“One thing at a time.” Her head is spinning from arousal. She can’t remember the last time she clicked with someone like this. And why the hell did it have to be Mercy, of all people?

“Trying.” She thinks of what it must have been like, to be Amélie and Angela. She’s pretty sure Angela is fucking Fareeha on the side, too, even though it probably violates fraternization rules over there or something. The Petras Act makes all Overwatch activities illegal anyway, so maybe the point is moot. “I’m just, like… You’re cheating, aren’t you?”

Angela looks at her. She exhales and looks to the side, exasperated. Oh yeah, because fucking a bunch of girls must drain the life out of you, sure, zorra. “I hope you don’t think that’s why Talon kidnapped her.”

“I don’t think that was your fault,” says Sombra. She wets her lips. She can still feel Angela slick against her fingers, the ghost of her hips against her palm, grinding, rocking. She has to think about what she wants to say next. Every other word that comes to mind is a swear. Puta, ¡contente! She can’t be that bad, can she?

“Did you know?” Sombra lowers her head. “About her and Talon? Is that why—”

Angela scowls. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t know everything. I would think you were better at that than I am.”

“Claro que sí,” Sombra grins. “Pero… But, um, you were kinda…” She nods to the door at the other side of the room. Her bedroom’s huge. “Upset, back there. After you started talking about her records, I mean. All the medical stuff.”

“You gave me the tequila.”

“You asked for it, bitch. How was I supposed to know you were a raging alcoholic?”

“I wasn’t drunk.”

“You touched me first.”

“I didn’t touch you because I was drunk.”

Sombra frowns. “Then…” Gross. What she’s suggesting is even worse. “Just tell me you’re a total whore and I’ll forget I ever asked.”

Angela smiles at her. It might be smug; it might be condescending. It might be totally honest. She gets on her back, guides Sombra’s hand between her legs again. She’s slick. Sombra works her, easily, elicits a gasp that turns into a groan and then louder, and Angela drags her down and rocks against her, arching upward and tightening around her fingers when she comes. Sombra gasps as her hips jerk crazily against her, nails pressing deep into her back. It takes a minute or two for her to come down from her climax, and the movements are urgent, needy, hungry for more, but when she finally does Sombra leans down with her, feels the heat radiating off of her skin. Sombra nuzzles her into her neck and then moves to kiss her on the mouth, and Angela runs her hands through her hair, fingers the implants at the back of her head. Slips her tongue into her mouth and takes over entirely. The kiss is slow, exploratory. It’s sweet. It’s intoxicating.

Sombra gets up.

“What’s wrong?”

If she gets invested now, it’s all downhill from here. She’s desperate for her, but she keeps thinking about Widowmaker, about Amari. Needs and desires and plain ol’ logic pull her mind in all directions. Maybe this is all part of Angela’s master plan, she thinks wildly. No way it could be this good without something… conspiratorial going on. Maybe she’s just paranoid.

OK, she knows she’s paranoid.

“Why?”

“Why what?” Angela asks, still throaty. She blinks at her. Her chest heaves up and down. It’s not as distracting as it could be now that she’s finally touched her.

“Why me?”

Angela looks down. “I wasn’t…”

Sombra watches her, waiting for the rest.

“I wasn’t expecting it, either.” Carajo. Of course she wasn’t. Why would she? That’s probably how they all started out. Except for Amari, maybe. That was more like a “Why wouldn’t she?” God, who wouldn’t?

“OK,” says Sombra. “Why did you even start, then, if you didn’t think you were gonna be so into it?”

“I really wasn’t—” Angela looks up at her, and then away. She seems just as confused as Sombra. There’s that hard crease in her brow that makes her look older, closer to her actual age. “That’s a good question.”

“Do you do this to, like, everyone you meet?”

Angela frowns. “Of course not.”

Sombra cracks a grin. “How am I supposed to know that?”

She knees her in the stomach, and Sombra laughs. It doesn’t even hurt.

“It’s OK,” says Sombra. “You’re a needy slut. Happens to the best of us.”

If Angela weren’t red-faced already, she’d be blushing. “I…”

“Think Sombra is an amazing lay.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“You were moaning my name just a second ago,” she remarks. Angela doesn’t have an immediate response to that.

“I don’t want this…”

“To be a thing,” Sombra finishes. “Me either.” They lock eyes. Good things only stay good for so long, after all. Better to leave it in the past, where it stays beautiful and perfect, than let it get messy. Angela breaks eye contact.

She can’t do it, can she? Fuck this self-control shit. They’d do it every day if they could. This is bad for a million reasons, pure toxicity, but it feels like sweet fucking heaven. It’s just weird and unexpected, and tomorrow they have to go back to work and talk about… other things. Carajo. Angela came here to talk about Widowmaker, and Sombra knows she’s doing Amari, and she’ll probably do Amari once when she gets back, and Sombra has to make a mental note to stop her if she comes around again, if she can even control herself. This is bad. This is really bad.

“I really wasn’t expecting it,” she says, looking at the ceiling.

“You said that already.”

“How are we supposed to get her out like this?” She’s talking about Widowmaker.

“Pendeja, you were screwed the moment you asked me. And I think it was pretty obvious that I have like no morals and no self-control and no common sense. Plus, you’re a total bombón. How was I supposed to say no to that?”

“I appreciate the compliment, at least.” Her tone is so fake, so ingratiating, so _Mercy_. That might be the sentence that comes out of her mouth, but what Sombra hears is, “Praise me more, bitch.”

She will, for the way she comes. She totally will.

“I have to ask you about Amari.”

Angela groans in frustration.

“Wow.” That didn’t take long. “Are you together or not?”

“That depends on your—”

“So then she thinks you are,” guesses Sombra, “but you’re actually not, because you’re going out and doing other people. Like me.”

Angela purses her lips.

“Why don’t you give up on her?” Angela opens her mouth. “And don’t say it’s because she won’t give up on you.” Her mouth closes.

“Aren’t you a know-it-all,” she grumbles.

“Kind of my job to be, querida.” Sombra leans in and kisses her, quick and sweet. She could get used to this, but she shouldn’t. Angela grasps the back of her neck and keeps her there, hunched over her, and stares at her and pouts.

She could really get used to this. She takes Angela’s hand, guides it between her legs. She’s a total fucking tease.

“Are you sure?” She’s plenty wet after having gotten Angela off already, and her fingers slip in and out of her, practiced as anything.

“Maybe not,” Sombra chokes. She can hardly think. “Amari. Shoot.”

She rests the back of her head against her pillow. “I think…” She doesn’t stop, chingada doctora, _detente_. Her touches are feather-light, barely there, but Sombra grinds against them anyway. She’s pure evil. “I thiiink…”

Sombra isn’t thinking anymore. She has to reposition herself over her so that she can move properly. Angela slides them in a little deeper, and her breath hitches and she gasps, moving against them more insistently. If Angela is saying anything, she’s not catching it.

She grips Angela’s shoulders and rocks herself off, groaning. She’s always been loud; she hates it. “Fuck, ándale,” she moans, helpless. Another finger finds its way inside of her. All she can think of are curses. Then she comes, up and down, working herself harder. Her mind flashes white, and then her hips settle, and she guides herself down carefully. Angela’s thumb teases her clit. She whimpers; it feels so fucking good. “Chingada puta,” she groans, rocking the last of her orgasm off—until it’s not; she isn’t sure where the next wave comes from, and she has to angle her hips in a weird way to get herself off fully. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

Angela slips her hand out of her when they’re finally done, slides out from underneath her so that they’re both sitting up. She smiles. It’s not a pleasant smile. She kisses her hard, then bites down on her lower lip, working her jaw open. Sombra leans in, hungry. She squirms against any sort of touch and she’s embarrassingly wet, but Angela doesn’t try to overstimulate her, at least. Sombra presses a hand to the side of her head and nudges them apart. She’s breathing hard when they do.

“I didn’t catch what you said,” she says, after her lungs have caught up.

Angela laughs in her face. “I was speaking in German.”

She rolls her eyes. “Of course you were.” Sombra faces her again. “OK. Fun time over. One last time—Amari.” She holds her pointer finger up. “The fuck you gonna do with her already?”

“I don’t know.”

“What, you didn’t have time to think while you were fucking me?”

“I was focusing on you.”

“Y muchas gracias,” she deadpans. “Swear to God I’m not doing this anymore if you still think you can keep her.”

“What about Amélie?”

“I know Lacroix can handle herself.”

Angela looks a little surprised at that. “You trust her?”

“Sure I do.” Sombra shrugs. “Her mind’s all still there.”

Her brow furrows. “You’ll have to tell me more about that.”

“Not in bed.”

“Fair enough.”

Sombra growls under her breath. She’s good at sidetracking her. “Otra vez. Amari. Dime, doctora, ¿qué harás?”

“If we don’t have to talk about Amélie, then why do we have to talk about this in bed?” she grumbles.

“Because it’s weird.”

“Maybe to you it is.”

“Also, it makes you a total asshole for cheating on her. I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume that Gérard knew about you two ‘cause you were so hot for each other, but I can’t imagine Fareeha’s like… cool,” her eyebrows rise, “with you going around boning other people. I’m sure she’s not doing it.”

“Didn’t you just—”

“Yeah, but I’m not doing it again unless you tell me what you’re doing with her.” Seriously, just pick already!

That makes Angela pause for a moment. Literally, she just freezes up. “You know,” she says, “neither of you are ideal partners for me.”

“Neither was Lacroix.”

“You’re probably better, though.” Sombra blushes. What the hell. “But Fareeha is…”

“Here’s a better idea,” says Sombra, placing a hand on her wrist. “Why don’t you talk it out with her, and then stop being such a manipulative asshole and get your shit together?”

Angela laughs. “That does seem smart.”

“So take the advice.” Sombra looks at her, narrowing her eyes.

“Are you going to hold it against me if I don’t?”

She grins. “I do have ways of finding out whether you did or not.”

“Athena.”

“That’s my girl.”

Angela groans. “I can’t believe you’re friends with her.”

“Hey, don’t look at me. She’s the one who asked me first.”

Angela leans back, sizes Sombra up. Her brow furrows. “You’re not kidding, are you?”

“Dude, you have so many ways to fuck me over right now it’s not even funny. Don’t even start.”

“That is true,” Angela purrs, and then she leers at her. Sombra blushes hard. Wow. “Fine.” Angela’s probably lying, but she’ll take what she can for now. “We’ll talk. I’ll tell Fareeha what happened, and if everything goes as expected, you’ll be getting an earful from her and our relationship will probably be ruined.”

“That’s fine,” says Sombra. “I don’t care.”

“You should. She’s frightening.”

She smiles. “I’m into frightening.”

“She won’t be into you.”

“Even better. It’s no fun if they don’t hate you at first.”

“Ugh,” she scoffs, “forget I said anything. Let’s just get back to the sex.”

Now she’s talking. Sombra leans in and kisses her, slow and unhurried. Angela kisses back. There’s no rush. It feels good.

 

 

 It’s the worst. 

The morning after is pure and unadulterated torture. It could almost be funny. Almost. They do it again, just for good measure, and then Sombra urges Angela off to the bathroom because she knows if she does it the other way around they’ll end up fucking in there, again, and then they’ll never get out of here. Her sheets are a mess—proof they had fun. She’ll have to wash them; it’s fine, she has her own washing machine in these ridiculous Polanco apartments. Angela’s clothes are lying in a neat, folded stack by her bed, near some bundled cables, and Sombra doesn’t remember when she would have had the time to fold them. It’s all mysteries with that one.

After Angela takes the longest fucking hot shower and Sombra can wash up after her (the hot water doesn’t run out, but the bathroom is full of steam when she enters), Sombra cooks eggs. Salsa. Huevos rancheros. There’s toast, extra hot sauce that isn’t quite to the doctor’s liking. Sombra fishes out some canned fruit that hasn’t expired and pours it out into a bowl. She offers to make mimosas, which earns her a hard pinch to the arm. They’re not going through that again. Angela’s laptop lies forgotten on the kitchen table, and she packs it up and puts it aside when she’s done eating. Sombra cleans up after them like a good host, then settles her elbows on the table and looks up at her.

“So.”

There’s a steely glint in Angela’s eyes. The sun is bright outside through the blinds; they got up early. The sleep had been restful, but she was needy. She had to have that one last fuck. Too many uncertainties.

“I remember what I said,” she says, still seated at the table. “And I’m going to do it.”

“Right. I gotcha.” Sombra just threw on a shirt, no bra; it was her place. Her hair’s still drying. She’ll put on real clothes if she decides to see Angela out, but the apartment complex isn’t exactly confusing and they’ll be talking to each other again soon enough. Sombra’s eyes trace the lines of her body. She’s not in love. That’s what all the cabrones say, and Mercy’s gonna chew her up and spit her out like the rest of ‘em. Much as Sombra would like to say she could do the exact same thing, she’s a softy at heart.

It’s why she talks tough. All bark, no bite. She’d never been fond of gang violence, and despite all the swaggering she hates killing, hates hurting people. She’d rather use them, teach them a lesson, hope that it sticks and that she’ll never have to deal with them again. With people like Volskaya, well, you just keep tabs on them and hope they don’t bite back.

“I…” Angela stares at her. “I really did enjoy last night.”

“And this morning.” You don’t have to be so cordial about it, Sombra thinks, but she’s sure that’s not the only reason she’s telling her that.

“And this morning.” She smiles wryly. She looks away; her eyes dart toward the windows at the other side of the apartment and back. “Thanks for the records.”

Sombra blinks. “You sure you should be thanking me?” They wouldn’t have fucked without ‘em—was she supposed to be grateful for that, too?

“Maybe not.” She laughs, raw and pained. “I didn’t know that I didn’t want to know, and now I won’t be able to forget it.” She runs a hand through her hair and looks away. That stuff is so soft; it’s like feathers.

“Sorry about the tequila.”

“You didn’t know. And I wasn’t drunk.”

“Me either.” Sombra smiles, and Angela smiles back.

They were totally drunk, just not enough to be clumsy about it. Sombra looks at her arms, at her skin, up at her hair. The evening’s over now that the sun is out, and she still has so many questions.

She doesn’t want Angela to leave. How many other people had thought that exact same thought in the past two decades? How many people has the good doctor fucked? Sombra has fucked plenty of people, so maybe she shouldn’t care; it’s not like her to get possessive. What they had was good, though, and when it came to Sombra, it was never that good.

Angela folds the sleeves of her shirt, distracted. She’s thinking about something again. Always thinking about something. Sombra wants to distract her from whatever she’s distracted by. She has to leave in a few hours for something—Sombra didn’t catch quite what, probably her flight—but Mercy is on time for absolutely everything. She can’t keep her here.

So, instead, Sombra walks around the table, slips arms around her waist. Angela stands up so that they’re snug against each other. It feels weird, holding her through her clothes. Sombra rests her chin against her shoulder, nestles in. “What now?” she wants to say. They break Widowmaker out of Talon, and then what? Go on to take over the world?

Angela whispers something in her ear; it’s in German.

“Te quiero,” she breathes. It’s not true, but it feels good to say.

Angela pulls back and they kiss, trying to wean themselves off of each other. Sombra sinks her face into her neck and murmurs promises in Spanish. She doesn’t know whether Angela understands them or not; the doctor knows enough to get around, but they’ve never tried to hold a conversation in it before.

Then they’re still, and it’s just… hard. Angela moves away first. She puts her hands on Sombra’s shoulders like she can’t decide where else to put them.

“This isn’t the end,” she says, false confidence edging her voice. “There’s still plenty left for us to do.”

“Business, you mean,” says Sombra.

“Right.” Angela sighs. She looks around the room for a clock, sees one on the fridge. “I should get going.”

Sombra steps away and watches her pick up her laptop and the suitcase she’d taken out of the guest room, which was, funnily enough, unoccupied yesterday. The bed’s even made. Angela walks to the door at the other side of the room. Sombra doesn’t follow suit.

She turns around. “You don’t want to see me out?”

“Nah,” says Sombra.

She frowns. “Really?”

She clenches her teeth. “I have to get dressed.”

“Then get dressed,” she chides, shooing her.

Fuck, she likes being bossed around by her. It’s hot. “OK, OK. Un momento, ya voy.”

Sombra dresses, and then they go out into the hallway and down the elevator and Angela says her goodbyes and then leaves, exiting out the revolving door of the foyer. Just like that.

Sombra watches her moving form through the windows, until she disappears behind the far wall. Just like that.

She doesn’t go back upstairs for a while.


End file.
